


the place that’s out of view

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Curses, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 20:29:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3742582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“As far as I can ascertain it’s a proximity curse,” Deaton says, still leading Stiles away from Scott’s house, walking quickly enough it’s nearly a jog. “Your life-forces have been merged. As you come into contact, he weakens and you strengthen.”</p>
<p>“Is it temporary?” Stiles asks. He feels almost normal, now. Close to himself. Sick to his stomach, but not supercharged. </p>
<p>Deaton frowns. “I don’t know.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the place that’s out of view

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Jon Brion’s [Strings That Tie to You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2EKwGS8dHmo). You shouldn't listen to it on repeat, just as you shouldn't listen to Lior's [This Old Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gLsgLlm4qrw) and cry about Scott/Stiles. 
> 
> Much love and thanks must go to [snoopypez](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez/pseuds/snoopypez) for Ameri-picking, beta work and hand-holding. Thanks also to [Brook](https://twitter.com/annoyingbrook) for being a great sounding board and not renouncing me forever when I suggested she may not be into skittles fic anymore.

They don’t realize anything’s wrong until it’s almost too late. Scott’s lips have turned blue, his eyes have lost all color and he’s shaking violently. Stiles hears a sickening crack as he holds onto him, watches as Scott’s arm bends all out of shape, and he’s going to vomit, his head is pounding and his heart is beating too fast, the whole world is going white, and he can hear a distant muffled sound but doesn’t know what it is until he’s being wrenched away, crowded out of the room. Stiles struggles, managing to push Deaton off him, shocked by how far Deaton travels, how pained he looks as he careers into the wall. 

“You have to go,” Deaton yells. “You’re killing Scott.”

Stiles stares into the room, watching Lydia cradle Scott, her gaze fearful. 

His mind whirls and spins, trying to make sense of the words. He doesn’t want to leave Scott, thinks this could be a trap, but he remembers the snap of Scott’s arm, the lifelessness of his body and if he has anything to do with that, anything at all, he knows he needs to get as far away as possible. Deaton gently, softly, like dealing with a wild animal, leads him out of Scott’s house and down the road. Their footfalls are loud and echoing, Stiles’ breathing is hard and fast. 

They’re yards away when Deaton finally speaks. 

“You’re under a curse,” he says, sounding more shaken than Stiles has ever heard him. 

Stiles stumbles along, heartbeat slowing, mind unfuzzy. “What?” he asks. “How? Why?”

“As far as I can ascertain it’s a proximity curse,” Deaton answers, still leading Stiles away from Scott’s house, walking quickly enough it’s nearly a jog. “Your life-forces have been merged. As you come into contact, he weakens and you strengthen.”

“Is it temporary?” Stiles asks. He feels almost normal, now. Close to himself. Sick to his stomach, but not supercharged. 

Deaton frowns. “I don’t know.”

*

The ramifications don’t fully impress upon Stiles until the nineteenth time he’s turned to say something to Scott in class and he remembers again that Scott’s decided to home-school himself; taken on extra assignments to make up for missing class discussions, all under the guise of reoccurring asthma attacks. They’d argued about it, with Stiles demanding he be the one to stay home, but Scott had twisted his words, acted like Stiles had suggested he wouldn’t be able to keep his grades up. That hadn’t been even close to his argument, but a determined Scott was unstoppable.

“It may only be for a week, anyway,” Scott had said. It’d been the first time Stiles had used his cell phone as an actual phone in months. He’d pressed it tighter to his ear, wanting to hear every cadence of Scott’s voice.

“Yeah, so why not give me happy sleepy pajama time? How come you’re the one who gets to stay home, covered in cheetos dust and cookie crumbs?”

“Because I’m not gonna be doing that, obviously, I’m gonna study. I can focus.”

“Hey! So can I. Especially when I’m pleasantly full.”

Scott sighed, loud enough the microphone crackled. “Stiles, this is my choice. I’m not asking you to like it, but I am asking you to respect it.”

How could Stiles have ever argued with that? (Easily. But Scott still won.)

It’s miserable without Scott in an adjacent seat. Tormenting classmates isn’t fun without Scott there to mildly reprimand him. Not being able to confer, check or criticize stretches the day out to boring eternity. Even the classes he’s never shared with Scott seem longer and lonelier. 

“You’re sulking again,” Malia says, poking him with an uncapped pen. He rubs at the sudden arc of blue against his skin. It’s surprisingly artistic, for willful vandalism. 

“I am not,” Stiles sulks. 

“Have you two ever been separated before?” Malia asks, looking at him like he’s a confusing creature she’ll never understand. It’s been a while since she’s used that expression on him and he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

“Of course we have,” he scoffs. “Ages zero to five. Summer vacation when we were twelve, Thanksgiving when we were fourteen.”

Malia continues to stare at him. Judging. She’s pulling him apart, putting him back together, and finding him wanting. Like an Ikea flatpack. 

“That isn’t weird, I don’t think,” he states, carefully. He’s been told he can be a condescending dick occasionally, but he’s been working on it. “For a long time we were the only friends each other had, so we’re used to spending time together.” He waves his hands around for emphasis. “It’s not like we don’t also have our own lives. He’s got his job, I’ve got my W.o.W buddies.”

“And you have other friends now,” Malia says, offhand. 

“Yeah.”

She studies him again, but doesn’t look so critical. “But Scott’s your favorite. Even though _we_ used to fuck.”

“Uh, that’s not quite --- you’re both my favorite in different ways.”

“But in some important ones, he’s still more favorite than me,” she states, decisively. 

Stiles doesn’t know how to explain it to her. He could talk about the sense of comfort and familiarity, about Scott having seen him at his worst and his best and still staying by his side, about the joy of knowing what someone’s going to do and say before they do. But that’s all so simplistic, easy to quantify. He doesn’t really understand himself why his world has tilted off its axis without Scott nearby, why he feels deserted in the middle of a battle.

“You’ll be together again,” Malia says, using a comforting tone she’s been perfecting the last seven months. 

“Thanks,” Stiles replies, reaching out and touching her wrist, softly. He misses the contact they had when they were dating, misses her soft skin against his. 

She bares her teeth at him in the semblance of a grin. 

There’s no reason to believe that what Malia says isn’t true, except an impending feeling of ominous dread, like a steady buzz of bees in a hive, or tremor in the earth. Like the shadow of the reaper, beckoning him to go. It’s been a week and a half and already feels as long as when the nogitsune hijacked his body. He knows he’s in turmoil if he’s comparing this to that. Comparatively, this is nowhere near as horrible as possession and murder. Yet. Every instance he’s reminded Scott isn’t there feels startlingly new and painful like it’s the first time. A physical, tangible ache.

He wonders if it’s the curse --- making him crave Scott’s presence so he’ll drain his lifeforce --- a self-fulfilling prophecy of destroying the one he cares for with that care. It’s possible. He has a meeting with Deaton straight after school. He’ll ask him. 

“Will you read through my comparative literature essay and make sure it makes sense?” Malia asks him, pulling him out of his reverie. 

“I haven’t even started my own, but yeah, sure,” Stiles replies, willing his voice to be steady in a way his emotions haven’t been for days. Malia looks pleased with herself, like she’s solved a problem. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her she’s only at the beginning.

*

“No,” Deaton says, abrupt. “I’ve never heard of this curse acting on a person’s desires in the manner you’re describing.”

“This couldn’t be an adaptation? A new and improved version of an old classic for maximum pain?”

“I don’t think so. It’s more likely you’re simply missing your friend.”

Stiles won’t argue with Deaton outwardly, even though inwardly he’s seething and already constructing counterpoints with anecdotal evidence. He doesn’t want to distract him any further from his goal of curing them. He’ll be the first to admit he hasn’t always trusted Alan Deaton. And when he’s had no choice but to trust him, when he’s had to rely on Scott’s trust, he’s continued to find him frustrating. He believes that Deaton has Scott’s best interests at heart, but sometimes Stiles thinks that means _he’s_ dispensable. 

“I know you think I’ve been prevaricating…” Deaton starts.

Stiles interrupts. “I don’t know what that means, so no I don’t, Doc.”

“Delaying, evading,” Deaton explains. Stiles rocks onto his heels, body easing into a relaxed posture that’s all fake. Yes, he had been thinking that. He frequently thinks that. “I want to take every measure to ensure your safety.”

“I’m more worried about Scott,” Stiles says, raw and honest without meaning to be. “It’s senior year. He deserves to be spending it in a terror-filled stressful environment with all his classmates, not isolated.” 

“It was a collective your, but I understand.”

“So?”

“So, I’m doing the best I can, Mr. Stilinski. I encourage you to continue doing the same.”

Stiles thinks he should start teaching _Deaton_ how to not be a condescending dick. He’s afraid the lessons would be lost on him. 

*

Scott’s hair is mussed like he’s been napping and he forgets to look into his camera, gaze always focused down. Stiles tries to ignore the sick lurch of his stomach. He has the weird urge to run his fingers through Scott’s hair, which he has absolutely never had the compulsion to do more than eight or nine times before now. 

“Feeling sleepy?” he asks, more for something to say than because he’s curious. 

“I’ve turned nocturnal,” Scott answers, with a yawn. “Up all night studying, go down to make Mom breakfast, finally sleep, waking up in time to go to work. No work tonight, though.”

“Yeah, I know, I was just with Deaton.”

“Any news?”

“Nope.” Stiles taps a rhythm on his thighs. He’s sitting in bed with his laptop, pillows propped behind his back. He’s tempted to shuffle down, hold the laptop above him, but then his arms would get tired. “Is it a wolf thing? Being up all night?”

“I texted Derek to ask, and he replied with ‘you’re a teenager’, like that’s some kind of answer, so I’m guessing not.” Scott gives a slow, wry smile that has Stiles’ heart thumping treacherously loudly in his chest. 

“Sounds like the Derek we all know and have learned to appreciate from afar.” 

“It’s common knowledge that you miss him more than me.”

“Do you mean I miss Derek more than I miss you, or that I miss Derek more than you miss Derek?”

Scott shrugs. “I’ll let you decide.”

“Either way it’s the wrongest thing you’ve ever said, so it doesn’t matter.”

Scott’s smirk slides into a smile. “Aww, you miss me?” 

Stiles stops short, looks directly into his camera. His chest is tight, his mouth dry. “You’re actually asking that? We’ve been inseparable since we were five years old, and you’re asking if I miss you?”

“I wasn’t serious,” Scott says, frowning slightly. “I --- you’ve gotta know I miss you too. That’s why I was joking about it.”

“Your jokes are never funny,” Stiles says. 

It sounds harsher than he intends. Meaner. Scott winces and Stiles feels _bad_. Sure they bicker at least once a week, have had more intense arguments, had a fist-fight when they were thirteen which stopped the second Scott started to have an asthma attack. Somehow, this feels worse. It’s a chasm between them, with no rope bridge in sight. 

He can hear the thunk of his body hitting the rocky floor when Scott presses his lips together. He stretches his arms above his head before saying, “I should go make dinner.”

“No, wait, Scotty,” Stiles starts. Scott pauses, expression a mixture of confused and mulish. Stiles has no idea what he wants to say. What few words he had on the tip of his tongue have vaporized. He sucks in a breath and says something that feels inadequate, hollow. “You know I’m not angry with you, don’t you? I’m angry at the situation.”

Scott’s eyes soften. “Yeah, I know.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever considered what life could be like without us side-by-side,” Stiles says, like it’s some kind of justification for his crankiness. And it is, in many ways, but there’s something else too, something he’s choosing to ignore for a while.

“And we can text, and call, and video chat, but it isn’t the same,” Scott continues, nodding. His face clears suddenly, corner of his lips ticking up again. “But it’s not forever, Stiles.” 

“It’s not forever,” Stiles echoes. He thinks about the lack of progress he’s made in finding out how to stop it, the dearth of answers Deaton’s provided. He can’t keep concentrating on that, has to hope like Scott does. “Go. Eat. How about I snapchat you tomorrow, catch you up with everything you’re missing at school.”

“I would like that. But not before noon.”

“Oh yeah? You’re gonna wake up to a whole bunch of snaps. Your phone’ll be snap city.”

“Okay, but, like, my point was; don’t expect any responses before noon. Maybe 1 pm.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at Scott. “Cretin.”

He can’t help but smile at the sound of Scott’s laughter.

*

Liam and Mason help him catalog the day, from unimpressed teachers, to the kid who sleeps through Liam’s every English class, to the nutritious but ugly as hell lunch available at the cafeteria, to Kira, Malia and Lydia discussing Schrödinger’s cat. Lydia’s horrified expression when Malia suggests the cat would probably still taste fine whether it was dead or not has Kira laughing so hard she snorts a milk bubble out of her nose, and it’s captured from three different angles thanks to Vine and three dedicated smartphones. It’s possible Stiles is the only one who knows that Malia’s joking, but that’s inconsequential in the long-run. 

Coach Finstock even records a voicemail message for Scott, though he takes the phone into his office to do so, so Stiles has no idea what he actually says. He hopes it’s approaching appropriate. 

When Scott starts replying, the day gets infinitely better. Half his pictures are blurry and badly angled. Some are shot where Scott’s too close to the screen, and there are some hilariously awful expressions. But it’s Scott, so every picture is perfect too. He takes a picture of himself eating a burrito and manages to snap the moment all the fillings fall out onto his chest. Stiles would say it was a set-up, but that’s not Scott’s style and he figures it’d be better in focus. Of course, it never would have happened if Scott had used Melissa’s patented burrito-wrapping technique, but he’s usually in too much of a hurry.

Stiles spends his last period of the day looking through his screenshots of Scott’s snaps, purposely ignoring everything around him. It’s better to memorize the quirk of Scott’s eyebrow as he poses with the mailman and the cheesiness of his grin as he places a poptart in the toaster. Stiles remembers countless Saturday mornings at the McCalls, sharing two different poptart flavors between them. They were usually tired because they’d spent half the night talking, so making pancakes or waffles always seemed like too much hassle. But poptarts? They were delicious and effortless. He’s jealous, he admits it. Jealous and covetous --- not of the diabetes-laced pastry, but of Scott’s time.

There's something about seeing Scott only through a lens that changes the way Stiles views him. There isn't that instant recognition he’s used to. He notices different aspects of Scott's expressions, other facets of his features. He can be more objective. But it also makes him more distant, like Scott is a teen idol rather than his best friend --- someone to admire, but not connect with on anything other than a superficial level. It unsettles him, makes him shove his phone back into his pocket. 

Stiles is finally starting his comparative literature essay in the library after school when Liam slaps a book on the table in front of him. The title is _Codependency For Dummies_ and Stiles has barely finished skimming the words before he’s throwing his writing book at Liam’s face. 

“You clearly have no idea what codependency actually is if you think it in any way relates to me and Scott,” he says, shoving the text book out of his line of sight.

“Who said anything about you and Scott?” Liam says with a laugh. 

Stiles levels him with a glare. 

“Codependency is about abuse and manipulation. It’s about a lack of boundaries and unhealthily low esteem. It’s not about friends who may or may not spend too much time together. You should read the damn book yourself.”

Liam opens his mouth wide, shuts it again. He leans forward. “How do you know that?”

“I looked it up when I was eleven, because my dad and Melissa were talking about it,” Stiles says. “What Scott and I have more closely resembles a symbiotic relationship. Which I proved with a ten slide powerpoint presentation. You probably don’t know what powerpoint is, so I have this to show you instead.” He flips Liam the bird, then grapples for his writing book again. 

“You’re kinda touchy about this, aren’t you?”

“The day has come when Liam The Miniature Hulk Dunbar feels comfortable enough in his skin to tease others about anger-issues, this is truly a beautiful moment.”

Stiles senses rather than sees Liam sit next to him. “But honestly, though, you’ve talked every day. Why’s it affecting you so badly? It’s not like you’re the kinds of friends who’re always hanging off each other, back-slapping and hugging it out.”

Stiles sighs, hits his head into the table. “But we could, if we wanted, right?” he says into the wood. “The potential would be there for our secret handshake and epic cuddles. We could have entire conversations with just our eyebrows, if we so wished. Except we can’t, because it could literally kill Scott. Do you have _any_ idea what it’s like to realize you could hurt the one you love just by being near them?” 

“Yeah, actually I do,” Liam says, quiet. “Anger-issues, remember? And werewolf issues. And, also, puberty issues.”

“Then have a little compassion and stop throwing it in my fucking face.”

Stiles isn’t proud of himself, but he also feels sliced open and examined, every organ weighed and numbered, so he gets up, gathers his things. He rushes out of the library, ignoring Liam’s protests, his own internal voice telling him he’s overreacting. It puts a dampener on his entire day, throat feeling scratchy and hands jittering. 

He doesn’t want to go home to an empty house. 

He drives to the station instead, automatically calmer and more self-assured when he steps through the door. His dad looks at him suspiciously, but he conveys ‘no trouble’ with a dip of his head. 

“Any files you need organized?” he asks, thinking it sounds way too much like a plea.

“You’re in luck, kiddo,” his dad says, rubbing his shoulder. “There’s a pile of signed reports on my desk that’ve been waiting for a filing cabinet all day. And if you’re thinking you can go investigating, the worst crime among them is bread-theft.”

“Hey, people used to get sent to Australia for that.”

His dad pulls an exaggerated face. “How is that a punishment?”

Stiles picks up the files, shrugs. “Everything there tries to kill you?”

“And the difference between there and Beacon Hills is?”

“The surf. Oh my God, you have a point.”

He spends three hours helping out at the station, like he used to, before his dad realized he was honing his detective skills and cheating the deputies out of their hard earned cash playing gin rummy. It’s comforting, absorbing. He can forget for a little while, has a task and a purpose wholly unrelated to anything else in his life. He has extended chats with his dad and with Deputy Parrish, and he’d forgotten he was capable of sustaining conversations with people older than him that were more than question and answer. 

Stiles and his dad go out for dinner together afterwards, to their favorite restaurant. Stiles even lets his dad get sweet and sour pork, though he limits his intake of spring rolls and fried rice. They talk more about the department’s latest cases, and there’s nothing remotely supernatural-sounding about any of them, which is a huge relief.

That night before bed, Stiles reels his dad in for a long hug. It may not quite be the contact he wants, but it’s good. It’s enough. For now.

*

Two more weeks go by. Stiles apologizes to Liam. He’s always hated apologies, especially when he’s not entirely sure he was in the wrong, but he needs all the friends he can get, and everyone agrees Liam’s bitch-face is even bitchier than his own. So he says sorry, admits he was venting his frustrations unfairly, and praises an unspecific deity that Liam’s learning how to give up grudges. 

He’s continued conducting his own research into the case, but he’s been coming up empty on all fronts. If there’s a witch, or a druid, or a mage, or a wizard, or a warlock, or any other kind of magic-using curse-flinging werewolf-hating person in town, they’re successfully cloaked out of sight. In his experience, Scott’s enemies tend to be more about monologuing out in the open, or covertly getting as close to him as possible, but neither of those appear to be happening here.

It all comes back to motivations and advantages; what could someone hope to gain from dividing them? And Stiles doesn’t know. It’s not like he ordinarily provides Scott with any power, not like Scott needs him to survive, and he’s run countless tests to ensure Scott hasn’t been possessed. He doesn’t understand it. And because he doesn’t understand it, he’s constantly at a loss. 

It’s infuriating. Like itching bones and ringing ears; a physical ache that’s ever-present and impossible to stop. 

Everyone says he’s quieter now. More sullen. He maybe proves their point by sarcastically wobbling his head in response, but frankly he doesn’t give a shit. 

He’s ready to collapse into bed after yet another arduous day of finals prep and refusing to paste a smile on his face. He thunders into his room, dumps his bag on his chair, and he’s going to strip off and climb under the covers, but there’s sudden movement and he’s doing his best amalgamation of martial arts instead. He gets in a karate chop or two, a judo kick, and there’s some aikido there. He doesn’t fall over, so that’s a plus. 

Except it’s Scott. Scott with bedhead and blinking eyes, and an adorably confused pout. Stiles is stepping toward him before he even realizes his feet have changed position. Scott’s out of the bed in a flash, standing with his hand wrapped around his opposite elbow, lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Scott? What’re you doing here?”

He has never seen Scott look more embarrassed in their lives. His cheeks are deep pink, his body tense. 

"I missed your scent," he tells the carpet. “I come here sometimes, when I think it’s safe. But I guess I fell asleep.”

Stiles’ heart drops into his stomach and stews in the residing acid. He knows any moment now he’s going to start hearing things he shouldn’t be able to hear, that he’ll gain unnatural strength and speed, but right now all he hears is their combined breathing, all he feels is weak. 

“You gotta go,” he says, voice hushed. Scott’s already crumpling in on himself, already going ashen. “But you have no idea how much I want you to stay.” 

He lurches forward and holds onto Scott, arms wound around his body. They’re pressed tight, full-body contact and not a single inch free. He presses his nose into the soft skin behind Scott’s ear, inhales deeply. He can instantly understand why Scott needed this. He hadn’t thought about it before, but it’s definitely one of the things he’s been missing. He hadn’t realized how much comfort could be gained by smelling Scott’s brand of shampoo and deodorant. He hadn’t imagined it could settle his nerves or help him feel so protected, so secure. 

Scott’s lips glance against his jaw when he pulls away. A shiver works up and down Stiles’ spine, resting at the base.

He doesn’t know why he does it, but he slides his shirts up over his head and hands them over. They’re skin-warm and probably _pungent_ rather than lightly scented, but Scott looks surprised and gratified, whole face lighting up. He begins folding the material, fingers working the fabric like he’s afraid it’ll slip to the floor and he won’t be able to pick it back up.

Scott’s eyes are losing color and the lines of his face are beginning to deepen. It’s like he’s literally being sucked dry. It makes him ache, to see Scott’s obvious pain and distress and know he’s the cause. He wants to break something, tear it into pieces, until there’s nothing but dust. It reminds him of how helpless he felt whenever Scott had an asthma attack, whenever his mom became confused. Sometimes, he was sure he was to blame. And now it’s true. 

Scott surges forward again, tugging him into his warm embrace. His hand splays on Stiles’ back, each fingerprint feeling like a brand. 

“Thank you,” Scott murmurs, thumb rubbing against his spine. He puts them at arm distance and Stiles can’t help but lean his forehead against Scott’s, wants to keep him forever. They breathe the same air, share the same warmth. “Take care.”

Stiles is half-naked, but that isn’t what makes him feel exposed. It’s the look Scott gives him before he ducks out the window, like he knows every single one of Stiles’ myriad emotions, like leaving Stiles is the worst thing in the universe, like he’ll raze the world if they can’t fix this. It’s fierce, possessive, and Stiles has never seen this side to Scott before. 

*

Stiles lies awake that night imagining Scott visiting him again. Except this time, they get even closer. Instead of a hug, it’s a grind. Instead of standing, they’re lying. Instead of talking, they’re kissing. He’s always been skilled at visualization, always found it easy to fantasize about people he cares about --- what he wants to do to make them feel good. He knows the sounds of Scott’s hitching breath, how he gasps and trembles. He wants to be able to associate that with joy. 

Part of him wishes he could explain this away as loneliness, confusion. It’d be easier to over-simplify it and say it’s his mind and body’s reaction to Scott’s absence. But he’s going to admit, to himself, if no one else, that this element of his affection has been there for _a while_. 

He wonders what it would be like, to know Scott that way, to bring him off, calm him down, touch and kiss and hold him as much as he’s dreamed about. He wonders if Scott’s ever entertained the notion. Judging by the way he was lounging on his bed and the look in his eyes when he left, Stiles thinks maybe. 

Perhaps, after this, when they can be themselves again, they can try being something different as well.

*

“You’re aware that the bite can sometimes corrupt and kill?” Deaton asks as Stiles helps him clear out the kitten cages. 

The kittens are roaring from carriers stacked along the wall. Their little paws wave and flail. Stiles thinks it looks like a simile of his life.

He’s been helping Deaton for days and it hurts to be somewhere there are constant reminders of Scott. His favorite brand of gum is sitting on the counter, one of his hoodies is hooked around the back of a chair. He has pictures tacked up around the office, small and unobtrusive, but impossible to ignore. The one of them together has Stiles’ arm slung around Scott’s shoulder, and Stiles can’t remember when he’d last gotten to hold him like that, casual and unthinking. 

Stiles rewinds Deaton’s question, realizes it needed an answer. “It brought me paralysis and near death. It’s not something I’m gonna forget in a hurry.”

“I believe something similar has happened here. You had the potential to become Scott’s emissary,” Deaton says, like he’s measuring out his words. “But something went awry. Possibly the nemeton’s involvement, perhaps, simply, bad luck.”

“So this was spontaneous? There isn’t some punkass mage to blame?”

“Precisely.”

Stiles stops scrubbing the metal base of the case for a second. “And when you find the cure, will I become Scott’s emissary?”

“I don’t know. It’s a choice. Would you want to be?”

Stiles stares off into the distance, considering. 

*

There have been periods in Stiles’ life where he’s been happy. When his largest concern has been what he’ll eat for lunch. Or whether his dad’ll pay him an advance on his allowance so he can buy the latest Playstation game. 

It’s a long time ago and seems even remoter now. Teachers sometimes roll their eyes at him and call him a child, and he bites his tongue, but he thinks _you have no idea_. This isn’t even all werewolf related, either. The pressures of keeping up his grades, affording gas, feeding, cleaning, taking care of himself is enough to have him forgetting a time he could be carefree. 

He wonders what it’d be like to have the chance to goof off and not feel like he’s on borrowed time. To not count down the seconds to responsibility and reason. 

He struggles to remember happiness, but there’s something very close to it bubbling in his blood when Scott accepts his Skype call. He’s wearing Stiles’ plaid shirt. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing forearms Stiles has found himself staring at before. Three buttons are undone, showing the collar of his tank top. Stiles wants to press up against him once more, touch all that bare skin. 

“Hey,” he says, drawing the word out. 

“I’ve stolen this,” Scott says, plucking at the shirt. 

“Clearly. Looks better on you anyway.”

Scott shakes his head. “Sometimes I think you walk straight past any mirrors you encounter, because that is so far from the truth.” 

Stiles doesn't know how to respond with anything other than sarcasm. “Okay, now that we’ve established we’re both unfairly gorgeous, you need to know that I came down with chickenpox today.”

“You had chickenpox when we were six.”

“Sure, but no one remembers that except us and my dad, and my dad agrees with me that you need to get your ass back to school.”

“Your dad referenced my ass?”

“Your unfairly gorgeous ass,” he confirms, nodding. It’s a half-truth. He told his dad what he was going to do, and his dad was cut off from objecting by Stiles fake-crying. 

Maybe by the end it was real crying, and that’s why he doesn’t feel guilty about it. 

“Seriously, Scott, if it weren’t for Lydia, you’d be a contender for valedictorian. Hell, she may decide it’s beneath her, and then you’ve gotta be next in line. You’ve worked too hard and too long to give up now.”

Scott’s face goes pinched. “I’m doing okay at home.”

Stiles gazes into his camera for a couple of seconds, building the suspense. He sighs, deeply. “I spoke to your teachers.”

“They gave away privileged information?”

“You know how persuasive I can be.”

“You mean obnoxious as hell.”

“It gets results. You do better when you can bounce ideas off others, you know you do.”

Scott moves back from the screen. His jaw is clenched, his demeanor the same as when he’s been outgunned. Scott never fully backs down from a fight unless he thinks it’ll save a situation, and it’s obvious he doesn’t want to surrender here. 

“Chickenpox lasts, what, two to three weeks? What will you do after you’re supposed to be cured?”

“You don’t think Deaton will have broken the curse by then?” Stiles asks. It’s the first time he’s seen Scott waver in his belief. Scott’s eye twitches infinitesimally, his left hand curls into a fist.

“I hope he does,” Scott hedges. “I want him to.”

There’s something amiss. Stiles kicks himself, literally and figuratively. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t seen it before. Deaton talked about prevarication and this is it, this is Scott avoiding the truth. He knows something he’s not divulging. 

“What aren’t you telling me, Scott?”

Scott looks off screen. “Mom’s home, gotta go, bye.”

He exits out of the call before Stiles can call him on his bullshit. Like that’s not suspicious as hell. Stiles is tempted to drive to Scott’s place and accost him, but he only has to remember his paper-thin skin and sunken flesh to curb the urge. He’s not going to put Scott’s life in danger because he’s curious. He has other methods for gathering information. 

There have been periods in Stiles’ life where he’s been happy and he really wants to believe he can have them again. He doesn’t think that’s a possibility without Scott.

*

Scott avoids him. He doesn’t answer innocuous texts, doesn’t arrive for their regular Tuesday night Skype chat, doesn’t tell Malia or Kira what’s going on, so they can’t report back to Stiles with answers. Stiles fumes. 

He’s had three days at home. Three days to go stir crazy, three days to fall into an infinite research loop, three days to live inside his head and add up missing pieces, only to end up with a negative number.

It’s bad enough that Scott has clearly actively lied to him, but for him to ignore him? It’s despicable. It’s far from typical Scott-behavior and nine times worse because of it. He uses his cell phone as an actual phone again to call Liam and bully him into handing his own cell over, but apparently Scott’s too savvy to fall for it.

“He’s running away,” Liam says, sounding bewildered. “He’s really fast.”

“That wily bastard,” Stiles says with a sigh. 

Well, Scott isn’t the only one who knows things about stuff. Stiles would wager Deaton knows far more.

“I need you to be honest with me,” he says to Deaton, pacing back and forth in his examination room. 

Scott is due to appear for work at any moment and the conflict between wanting to see him and keep him out of harm’s way is messing with his state of being. 

Deaton waits, patiently enigmatic as usual.

“Have you found a way to break the curse?” 

“Yes and no,” Deaton says, tone careful. 

Stiles takes several deep breaths, stops himself from yelling. “What does that mean?”

“One method for breaking the curse has always been known to me. But I discussed it with Scott and he refused to consider it, so I’ve been searching for alternatives.”

“You weren’t going to tell me this unless I asked you directly?” Stiles queries, nails digging crescent moons into his palm. His blood is pounding thickly in his veins, his teeth grinding against his volition. 

“Scott asked me not to. I was adamant I wasn’t going to lie, but I must confess, I have omitted information.”

“Why? Does it involve death, dismemberment? Grave robbery? A greatest hits anthology of screams interspersed with wind chimes? An E.L. James adaptation of Dr. Seuss’ _Hop on Pop_? What is it?”

“A soulbond,” Scott’s voice says from the doorway. He looks like he’s been standing there longer than he should have, that the curse has already wrought several of its effects. Of course. “Irreversible.”

“It would mean that you’re inextricably linked,” Deaton explains further. “Similar to your current state, except that together both of you would gain strength, and apart you would weaken.”

Stiles needs time to process this. Needs to puzzle it through. “How intimate are we talking? Having to go to the potty together?”

Deaton’s calm expression doesn’t alter. “The greatest distance known to be successfully maintained is ten miles.”

“I’m not seeing why this would be any kind of problem,” Stiles says, hurriedly. He pauses for a moment, gazes at Scott. Scott, who looks like he’s breaking into pieces, but it’s got nothing to do with the curse. Stiles’ heart stops. “Unless you don’t want to be bound to me.”

Scott moves forward, though he’s shaky and uncoordinated. “How could you think that? Of course I want to be. But I can’t do it to you. I can’t tie you to me like that. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“How about letting me decide that for myself?” Stiles asks, furious. “How about giving me a choice in the matter?”

“You need to go,” Deaton says, holding Scott around the shoulders and ushering him out. He talks to Scott in quiet reassurances, warm words and platitudes. He gives him the comfort Stiles can’t.

Stiles slams the examination table and it cracks clean in two. He stares at the wreckage, attempting to regulate his breathing, trying to focus on his humanity. He has no idea how Scott is so in control all the time. If he had his power constantly, he’s almost certain he’d abuse it. Not because he’d want to, but because the temptation would be too great. The rage he feels at this situation consumes him. It takes every ounce of his self-will to back down, gather his wits about him, keep contained.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he answers on the second ring.

“Don’t you get it?” Scott’s voice is whisper quiet. He sounds like he’s been crying. “If I were to die, you’d die.”

“Don’t _you_ get it? I would anyway.” 

*

Stiles has never been afraid of commitment. If anything, he’s craved it. Stiles thrives on stability, on a solid foundation. Something he can jump off and know it’ll be there when he wants to come back down. He wants to build relationships that stand the test of time, that both parties are equally invested in. He’s in it for the long haul. 

The last couple of months have proved to him that while he’s technically capable of surviving without Scott within reaching distance, no part of him wants to.

So he’s going to fight for this. 

Scott won’t return his calls. Stiles goes to his house, but he’s not there, and Melissa won’t tell him where he is. The rest of the pack is sympathetic, but reluctant to get involved. Stiles wants to ask Scott why he gets to be the self-sacrificing one. Why he thinks it would be any kind of sacrifice.

Stiles’ stomach squirms at the idea of them ending like this, twelve years of friendship discarded like so many hopes and dreams. And, rationally, he knows the moon will still revolve around the earth, new life will continue to blossom and grow, his heart will keep beating a constant rhythm in his chest --- but he can’t imagine them mattering to him much anymore.

He’s curled up on his bed when his phone rings. He doesn’t realize what it is at first, caught up in his own mind, circling the same thoughts over and over again. 

“Hi,” Scott says. “I guess we should talk.”

Stiles does his best not to sound wounded. “Yeah, I’ve been trying.”

Scott doesn’t fall for the deception for a second. He’s apologetic, conciliatory. “I know you have. I just --- I needed space.”

Stiles is pretty sure the expression on his face is a cross between a smile and a grimace, chin heavy, lips numb. “Not a rare commodity, last I checked. Not between us anyway.”

There’s a beat, two.

“You know, Dr. Deaton might find another cure.” 

“Be honest, do you really think that? ‘Cause you seemed a lot less optimistic a week ago.”

Scott sighs. “I don’t _not_ believe it. It could be worth the wait.”

“Spending the entirety of our lives in different rooms, in places out of view, because you’re afraid of the alternative.”

“I’m fearful for a reason. I’ve already lost people I love, Stiles.”

“And I haven’t? Haven’t endangered everyone close to me, by mere association? That’s our life. That’s what we’ve become.”

Scott’s tone is low, harsh. “So you should understand why the thought of killing you by proxy is unbearable.”

“I’m not going to force you, Scotty. I’ll strongly persuade, I’ll gently coax, but I won’t force you.” Stiles takes a moment, tries to find the words that will adequately express the feelings he harbors. He listens to the sound of Scott’s footfalls, background noise down the line. 

“If your only concern is because it’d be unfair to me, you’re wrong. You’re just wrong. We may encounter life-threatening situations; we have before, I won’t discount it happening again. Things will probably get harder before they get any better. And, let’s be honest, I’m way more of a disadvantage to you as the squishy human than you are to me as the supercharged wolfboy. If it’s because you don’t wanna die for me, I get that, I do. I’ll defend that choice with my dying breath.

“But here’s the thing --- we can rescue each other. We might not succeed, but we can _try_. To me, it’s worth doing for that reason alone. I want to be by your side, helping you fight every battle, vanquish every foe. Even if that foe’s a quadratic equation. Or a speeding fine. Or a fucking terrible day. You’re it for me.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and Stiles doesn’t think about how loud it is until Scott’s falling through his window. Scott stands up awkwardly, limbs looking like they’ve been attached all wrong. He stares at Stiles, like he’s his guiding light on a distant shore. He’s breathing hard, sweat soaking his shirt, skin heat-pink and shining. 

“You’re it for me too,” he says, moving closer. 

Stiles meets him in the middle of the room, enclosing Scott in his arms. Nothing has ever felt better.

Or, at least, that’s what Stiles thinks, until Scott twists in his hold and presses their lips together. 

It isn’t a surprise. Stiles thinks it should feel like one, but it doesn’t. They haven’t ever kissed like this before. They practiced on the backs of each other’s hands when they were eleven, but it was wet and sticky rather than tantalizing like this is. It feels natural, though; fated, like they were always going to come to this, like it’s the universe finally clicking into place. 

The kiss is warm, and passionate, and all-consuming. Scott’s lips are soft and gentle and Stiles pushes into it deeper, tilting his head to change the angle. He steps closer into the vee of Scott’s legs, tangles a hand up into his hair. Scott groans and Stiles smiles into it, loving how every response is amplified. He can _smell_ Scott’s contentedness. It’s a mindfuck, but a good one. He captures Scott’s lower lip between his own, nibbles softly. Scott arches into him and he catalogs that for later. 

Stiles doesn’t want to stop kissing Scott, but he can feel power surging through his body, sizzling and popping like an electric current. He eases away, can’t help but rub his thumb against Scott’s cheek. He’s starting to look delicate, near-translucent, and Stiles wants to wrap him up from the world and keep him safe.

“I hope that was okay,” Scott says, stroking his hand down Stiles’ back.

“It was more than okay,” Stiles says, concentrating on Scott’s lips again. Wanting to kiss some more. “You know, it’d be hilarious if this was one of those true love’s kiss situations, and we just unwittingly broke the curse.”

Scott shakes his head, the tip of his nose brushing Stiles’. “That was, like, the first thing I asked.”

Stiles smiles, sure he looks dopily affectionate. “Of course it was. Meet you at Deaton’s?”

“It’s one in the morning.”

“Yeah, and?”

Scott opens his mouth twice, closes it with a snap. He trembles, but it’s the curse finally catching up with him. Stiles can almost see the cogs whirring in his mind. 

“Race you,” Scott settles on, with a devilish smile. He lands another quick kiss on Stiles’ lips and is vaulting out the window. 

*

It takes days. Stiles is impatient at the best of times, so he’s horrendous at the worst. But it’s important to have the right preparation, essential to be thorough, so he’ll weather it. He will complain vociferously at anyone within speaking distance, but he _will_ wait. 

He bathes in the cleansing oils Deaton gives him, practices the chants he’s required to recite with Malia. He listens to Deaton’s recording of his vows to get the pronunciation right. Scott sends him snaps and texts loaded with emoji, and he can almost feel the ghost of his touch, the phantom of his kisses.

“You sure about this, son?” his dad asks in the downtime. He has his concerned, I’m-about-to-convince-you-otherwise expression etched into the lines of his face. 

“Positive,” Stiles declares, brooking no argument. 

“It’s a lot of responsibility.”

Stiles looks at him steadily. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can, Stiles. But don’t feel like you have to do it alone, okay? It shouldn’t be just you and Scott against the universe. You have a whole family surrounding you.”

Stiles isn’t too proud to admit he wasn’t expecting this. It isn’t that his dad is some kind of sitcom foolish dad cliché who has to go through 21 minutes of a life lesson before he comes around to doing and saying the right thing. Or that he hasn’t backed Stiles up before. But Stiles thought he’d be more resistant. He thought his dad would be warier, more prone to pointing out how much Stiles would have to live for if everything were to go awry. He’s being _very_ accepting. 

“You’re not staging a coup, are you? This isn’t me falling for a kidnapping?”

“Melissa and I discussed it with Alan and we all agreed that if we tried to prevent you from doing this, we’d only be making you do it more, so, no. If this is truly what you want, I’ll stand by you.”

Stiles feels choked up, but doesn’t want to let it show. He effects a calm pose, but he thinks it’s probably obvious he’s posturing and gives up.

“Thanks, dad,” he says, falling into a hug. He wipes away a stray tear as he pulls away, clears his throat.

“When were you gonna tell me about you and Scott, by the way?”

Stiles is used to dealing with his dad when he’s in interrogation mode. It involves interrogating back. “What do you mean?”

“Last I knew, you boys were buddies, and now suddenly you’re star-crossed lovers. Like Beacon Hills isn’t confusing enough.”

“Uh… is it gonna strengthen or weaken your resolve to support us if I tell you any romantic aspect to this is secondary? I mean, you’re not wrong that we’re becoming buddies with bonuses. But that isn’t why I’m doing this.”

“Hmm. You still haven’t answered the question.”

“Because I don’t know when I was gonna tell you. When we were able to define it for ourselves, probably? Or maybe never, just let you use your detective wiles to figure it out.”

His dad gives him an unimpressed look, one that is impossible to misinterpret. But soon, he’s almost-smiling; Stiles thinks in bemusement, but he’ll take it. 

His dad has work, so he leaves Stiles to anoint himself with his final sprinkle of herbed oil, as incense burns and hopefully doesn’t torch the place. He’s not going to think about how ridiculous it is, because Deaton’s been clear about the importance of belief in magic, and he’s read enough articles about the power of placebos to understand that sometimes potential is the only necessity. If science and magic agree that the mind can transcend what’s generally accepted as fact, he can too. 

A weight feels like it’s been lifted off Stiles’ shoulders, now that they’ve had this discussion, now that he knows his dad’s response to the situation. He’s never wanted to be a disappointment to him, has secretly worried he has been for too long. But his dad understands this better than Scott initially did. He thinks it could be because of his mom and how his dad will never fully recover from losing her. He knows a thing or two about the emptiness of a heart that used to be full. 

But it’s interesting that he saw causation between Stiles’ decision and the nature of his feelings for Scott, rather than correlation, and it makes him wonder if that’s true of everyone. 

He speed dials Scott, bounces on the balls of his feet as his phone rings. He’s looking forward to never hearing this sound again. From now on, it’s texting and yelling down hallways. Hell, it’s morse code tapped into Scott’s readily available skin. He can’t wait.

“Hey,” Scott says, light-voiced, like he’s excited.

“You know I’d do this even if I didn’t wanna kiss you, don’t you?” Stiles says, thinking he knows the answer, but wanting to hear it anyway. To check. To confirm.

Scott chuckles softly. “Yeah, I know. And I might’ve been hesitant, but I’m the same.”

“Good. Now that we’ve established that fact, lemme tell you all the places I wanna kiss you.” 

“The lacrosse field? The parking lot? The center of a busy sidewalk?”

“You willfully misunderstand my words.”

“Ahuh. My jokes are never funny. You’ve said that before.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, caught up in how fond he is of Scott. “I love you.”

“I love you too. See you tomorrow.”

Stiles murmurs a, “See you,” but Scott’s already disconnected the call. Stiles resolves not to feel lonely. Soon he won’t have to worry about it. In a little while, it’ll be a distant memory.

*

Stiles is so nervous he could puke. But it isn’t terror. It isn’t dread. He knows every step of the ritual, can say what he needs to say backwards and forwards. 

Scott looks angelic in a loose, white shirt that’s open at the collar. Importantly, he looks whole and healthy. Stiles thinks he should feel ashamed about how much he wants to wreck him again, have him shaking in his arms because he’s overloaded with sensation. He wants to pull him apart so he can put him back together. 

Stiles’ own white shirt is scratchy and possibly a size too small. That doesn’t stop Scott from looking like he wants to devour him. 

Tension in the room is high. Deaton appears to be trying to ignore that by submerging a length of rope in the same oils Stiles had to bathe in. Stiles doesn’t know if he succeeds. 

It’s an intensely private ceremony, but the pack’s outside the clinic. Stiles can sense them, which is uncanny. Deaton says he’ll be able to do so all the time from now on, as a background awareness. He hopes that only involves vague impressions and not specific details. The last thing he needs is ever-present intel on whether Liam’s aroused. He doesn’t know how Scott looks anyone in the eye. 

The words they have to say are in Old English. He’d been expecting Aramaic, or Latin, but Old English is just as confusing and unlike a language he understands as they would have been. Scott speaks first, staring into Stiles’ eyes as Deaton winds rope around his wrist. Loosely translated, he’s pledging his soul to Stiles. When it’s Stiles’ turn to speak, he’ll say the same to Scott. The name for the ceremony is ‘Hláfordhyldu’, which simply means loyalty. Stiles thinks it goes beyond that, but who’s he to argue with dead dialects? 

There’s the scent of lavender and rosemary in the air, undercut by ginger and cinnamon. Candlelight shimmers from a hundred tea-lights set up along counters and shelves. Stiles wishes they had chosen to conduct this somewhere less sterile and clinical than a veterinary examination room, but that would have taken extra time to get the necessary wards and blessings in place.

Stiles recites his vows; careful, devoted. He doesn’t stumble or falter. It’s all about intention, and he means this more than he’s meant anything in his life so far. 

Deaton wraps the rope around Stiles’ wrist and he and Scott hold hands. Scott’s eyes flash red twice, and Stiles feels a surge of power pass through him. 

It’s a little anti-climactic. The earth doesn’t feel like it stops revolving. The sun doesn’t crash out of the sky. He has an itch behind his right ear, and – oh – Scott reaches forward and scratches it for him. That’s bizarre, but not unwelcome. 

“You’re bound,” Deaton says, somewhat unnecessarily. Stiles can feel his eyes on them, but he doesn’t want to look away from Scott. It’s been so long since his gaze has been able to linger. He memorizes the shape of his warm, brown eyes, the curve of his lips, the symmetry and asymmetry of his features. It's different from looking at photos or a computer screen. Real. “I’m going to be in the front room.”

“That’s it, dude, there’s no escape,” Stiles says, rubbing his thumb against Scott’s palm. “You’re mine now and I’m yours.”

“So nothing’s changed,” Scott says with a smile. He leans forward, pulls Stiles closer, grasping his free hand. There’s an inch of space between them, feet knocking, breaths mingling. “Thank you. I’ll protect you. I’ll keep you safe.”

“And will you let me protect you and keep you safe?”

Scott rolls his eyes dramatically. “If I have to.”

Stiles kisses him gently, quirks an eyebrow. “I mean it, Scott. No shoving me aside in the heat of the moment. No thinking you can put me in a box out of harm’s way. Where you go, I go. We’re stronger together, remember? That’s not figurative anymore, it’s a veritable fact.”

“All right,” Scott says with a gust of a sigh. “But don’t deliberately run into danger.”

“When have I ever done that?”

“You want the abridged version, or the extended? Because we could be here for days.”

Their stomachs growl nearly simultaneously, and Stiles doesn’t have the energy for a rejoinder. He accepts temporary defeat. 

*

They all sit around the largest booth of the best diner in town, packed onto the bench-seats with no gaps. Stiles hooks his ankle around Scott’s and feels a kind of contentedness he’s not sure he’s ever known. No one seems surprised when they hold hands, or when Scott presses a kiss to his cheek, and Lydia’s too intent on talking about what Stiles missed in math to stop him when he wriggles even closer to Scott, practically sitting on his lap. 

Stiles nibbles on chocolate fudge cake, smirking when Scott rubs the corner of his lips and licks the excess frosting off his thumb.

Spirits are high and jokes are plenty, even among Melissa, Deaton, and his dad. It’s like the smell of fresh cut grass after a rainstorm, or a blanket of white snow in the morning --- something pure and inspiring after so much horror. 

“Is it McCall-Stilinski, or Stilinski-McCall?” Liam asks facetiously, to glares from practically everyone at the table.

But Scott smiles, smug and playful. “You’re Liam McCallinski, now, son,” he says, commanding. Stiles wants to hear that tone all day. “And don’t think you can negotiate with your dads separately, we’re a unified force.”

Liam grimaces, dropping his burger like it’s mortally offended him. Mason steals it from his plate and eats it within ten seconds. Melissa and Stiles’ dad sit there looking horrified.

*

The next few weeks are filled with as much physical contact as possible with clothes intact. It isn’t something they talk about in depth, but it’s a mutual decision to wait for a while --- to enjoy each other’s company without the specter of their first time looming over them. Stiles isn’t _scared_ , but he’s a little overwhelmed with being able to touch Scott at all, so immediately adding in naked writhing bodies feels like a step too far. A tiny, itty-bitty step, but one nonetheless.

At school, they get written up for excessive PDA on three different occasions, but that doesn’t stop Stiles from reeling Scott close whenever he can. They cuddle in hallways, they kiss by their lockers, they slow-dance on the lacrosse field. They spend most waking moments together, and some sleeping ones too; Stiles lying in the curl of Scott’s arms and the warmth of his bed. Whenever Stiles has something to say, he has Scott to say it to. 

He’s happy. 

Everyone says they’re sickeningly sweet, and Stiles hasn’t always been known for his sweetness, so he’ll run with it, take advantage. He steals Scott away from pack gatherings, requisitions him during free periods. He’d feel bad about it, but Scott does the exact same thing, pulling him away from the station when he’s almost finished helping his dad file, asking him out on dates independent from their friends. It’s good spending time together that doesn’t have anything to do with solving supernatural problems. Good to be teenagers enjoying movies and milkshakes and obscene amounts of red vines. (There was a competition. Stiles slaughtered the competition. The competition being Scott, who whined like a baby and asked Stiles to rub his tummy, only to be shown a victory dance.) 

It’s after one of their dates that they’re lying on Stiles’ bed, sheets rucked up all around them. 

They make-out, slow and lazy, Stiles sliding his hands up under the shirt Scott’s wearing. It’s his shirt; a little too long and a fraction too tight around Scott’s upper chest, but it looks good on him. Stiles thinks it’d look even better on the floor. 

Scott’s hair is tousled and his lips are deep pink, eyes hazy as Stiles stops kissing him for a moment. 

“Can we lose the shirts?”

Scott hums. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask.”

“You couldn’t’ve suggested it?”

“I could, but then I wouldn’t get the pleasure of you propositioning me.” Scott looks so pleased with himself, Stiles kisses him silent. 

He strips his shirt off, helps Scott do the same. The arc of his body as he stretches up off the bed is beautiful. Stiles slides his fingers over the expanse of his skin, entranced by his warmth. Being able to touch Scott like this feels like the rarest of gifts, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever take it for granted. He can hear Scott’s pulse thundering in tandem with his own and he kisses where the heat gathers and blood throbs within his veins. 

Scott scratches fingers against his scalp, widens his legs so Stiles can settle between. He rises up to meet Stiles’ trail of kisses and licks, moaning when Stiles takes his right nipple into his mouth and sucks. 

“That good?” Stiles checks, lifting up and gazing at the flush of Scott’s face. 

Scott nods, caressing his jaw. “I’ll tell you if I don’t like something.”

“Would you really, though, or would you suffer in silence?”

Scott nuzzles into his neck, planting a trail of kisses. “I’d tell you. And, honestly, you’ll probably be able to sense it. I can sense everything you’re feeling.”

“It’s difficult for me to distinguish between your responses and mine.”

“It takes practice. And I hope you’re not planning on doing something you don’t enjoy.”

“Touché,” Stiles says, bending down to suck Scott’s other nipple, focus on the wave of excitement that overcomes him.

He’s wanted to do this longer than he’ll admit to Scott, though maybe Scott’s already aware. He’s wanted to know parts of him their previous friendship typically wouldn’t allow. It’s good to see Scott writhing into his touches, perfect to hear him gasping because of Stiles’ hands and mouth. It's like every sensation is magnified, made brighter and bolder.

Scott looks so impressed with him when he palms him over his sweats, Stiles does it again, adding a twist to his grind that has Scott breathing out a laugh. It's heady, being the cause of that, making Scott buck into him. 

It only makes sense to take off their pants next, see each other in full. And Stiles has seen Scott naked a few times over the years, seen his body develop as much as his own has, but it's different like this, splayed on the bed they'd sometimes share as kids. Scott's fine-boned and deceptively muscular, abs rippling as he breathes. His cock is a deep red as it rises to slap against his belly, thick and tempting. 

"Like what you see?" Scott teases, but Stiles can feel some insecurity mixed in, the same nervousness he's been feeling. 

"Fuck, yes," Stiles says, honestly, too greedy for arrogance. 

He shucks off his own pants and kneels on the bed. He's been dripping precome since they started making out and he's so hard he's aching. 

"Come here," Scott commands. Pleads. Suggests. It doesn't matter which. Stiles would do it anyway. 

They lie on their sides, feet tangled, lips working passionately, hands sliding around each other's cocks. There isn't any space between them, their bodies refuse to part. Scott strokes him off like he's watched him, knows exactly what he needs; perfect rhythm, ideal strength in his grip. Stiles does what feels natural, thumbing the head of Scott's cock, twisting on the upstroke. Stiles can't contain the sounds he wants to make, refuses to hold back. He murmurs assurances and affirmations against Scott's kisses --- "Like that, Scotty, just like that." --- Listens intently to the stutter of Scott's heart. 

It's like they're the only two people in the world. All of his senses are focused on Scott, on the salty-sweetness of his lips, the scent of his sweat, the quick flash red of his eyes. Stiles loses himself in every sound Scott makes; involuntary, deliberate. He finds himself again in the warmth of his skin.

They come in a messy sprawl, seconds apart. Scott scrunches his face up adorably and one day Stiles wants to capture that, have it as a keepsake. Stiles mouths at his jaw as he joins him in bliss. 

Minutes or hours or days later, Stiles rubs his whole body against Scott, shocked, but not at all upset about his short refractory period. "I wanna be inside you," he says into Scott's collarbone. "Do you want that?"

Scott snorts into the top of his head. "I don't have any idea why you think my answer to that would be no."

He preps Scott slowly, using too much lube and careful fingers. When Stiles sucks his cock into the depths of his mouth, Scott falls apart in shocky tremors, head thrown back and skin drawing taut. By the time Stiles slides into him, he's relaxed and ready for the drag and push of their bodies. He's still obscenely tight, inner muscles working hard, milking Stiles' cock. 

He urges Stiles to move faster with an insistent grasp of his hips, legs stretching out wider and shoulders taking his weight as he shoves back into his thrusts. His groans are high-pitched and urgent, like he can't wait to come again, but he never wants this to end. Stiles feels the same. 

He thinks about them sharing one soul and one body and he can't take it anymore, rutting into Scott like a mindless, wild thing, grunting out his release. 

Stiles begins to roll to the side, but Scott cradles the back of his head, holds him close. He's half-asleep, but aware enough to be gentle. "Stay for a while."

Stiles doesn't hate the idea, but; "We're all sticky."

"Don't care. Want you."

Stiles closes his eyes and settles down again, feeling sated and secure. Scott snuffles into his hair, tightens his grip around his body. Stiles isn’t sure which one of them is feeling boundless joy, but he doesn’t think the distinction is important. 

*

Malia, Liam and Kira are running circles around the clearing; Malia in coyote form, Liam in beta-wolf form, and Kira shooting electrical sparks toward the creature in the center. The snarling, tentacle-flailing creature that they’ve yet to define or successfully communicate with. They’re keeping it contained. Lydia and Mason are doing something similar, but with sprinkles of mountain ash among the surrounding trees.

Stiles’ dad, Melissa, Deaton, Ms. Morrell and Deputy Parrish are standing nearby with a gigantic net and machine guns that Derek and Braeden brought. Derek and Braeden themselves are preparing some kind of offensive fire-weapon that Stiles is steering well clear of. Chris is apparently on his way to help them fight, but has gotten caught in a traffic jam on the interstate. 

“Are you ready?” Scott asks, eyes glowing red, fangs and claws sharp and formidable. He’s bulkier than he used to be. Quicker, as well. Stiles himself feels invincible, like he could take on anything, though he knows how important to is to keep a check on that, to be cautious.

Stiles must always be ready to stand by Scott’s side. 

“Whenever you are,” he says, brandishing a concoction of herbs and synthetic chemicals; an experiment of his, Lydia’s and Deaton’s devising. He’s confident they’re going to be victorious, but it pays to be prepared.

Hands held tight, they charge into the fray.


End file.
